


Some Such Place (The Big Screen Classics Remix)

by pocky_slash



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Still Have Powers, Blow Jobs, Casual Sex, Films, Friends With Benefits, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Philosophy, Politics, Remix, sociology - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-26
Updated: 2013-05-26
Packaged: 2017-12-13 00:07:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/817639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pocky_slash/pseuds/pocky_slash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Erik's spent the last eighteen months having lengthy socio-political conversations and casual sex with Charles Xavier after seeing Monday matinees at a dingy little independent movie theatre in the Village. That doesn't mean they're friends. Or that Erik should have any say in what Charles is going to do with his future.</p><p>(At least, that's what Erik keeps telling himself.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Some Such Place (The Big Screen Classics Remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [baehj2915](https://archiveofourown.org/users/baehj2915/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Some Such Place](https://archiveofourown.org/works/332972) by [baehj2915](https://archiveofourown.org/users/baehj2915/pseuds/baehj2915). 



> Huge thanks to everyone I know for cheering this along and to [redacted] in particular for betaing and handholding. I know Remix isn't an exchange, but **baehj2915** , I hope you enjoy this take on your story! There are a couple of lines lifted directly from the original, or at least inspired by lines from the original.
> 
> Also, for the record, Erik and Charles' opinions on these films do not always reflect my own ;)

The theatre is almost always empty for the Monday matinee. Big Screen Classics, the series is called, and Charles is a season ticket holder. If Erik wants to see him, he can count on finding him in the third row to the back, all the way on the right, leaning against the wall with a bucket of popcorn.

Erik doesn't hold a season ticket, though it would probably save him money in the long run. He doesn't like the idea of Charles thinking he can rely on Erik's presence. Still, he's missed only one movie in the past eighteen months. They get a late lunch, after, when Erik shows up. They talk over whatever Charles is in the mood for and talk over their long walk back to Charles' apartment. Sometimes they keep talking for hours. Sometimes they pause to fuck. Sometimes they keep talking while they're fucking.

They watch films together and eat afterward. They see each other at political and community events and fundraisers. They attend some of the same parties thrown by notable mutant supporters. They have a few of the same friends. Erik wouldn't call it a relationship, though Charles is the only person he's been with--the only person he's spent time with, really--since they first met. He doesn't ask Charles about it because it's nothing, really, and he imagines Charles is slightly less fucked up than he is, probably capable of carrying on normal relations with other people, relations that Erik really doesn't want to know about.

He wonders, sometimes, though. He wonders if anyone can make Charles smile quite like he can. Charles smiles at everyone, of course, but it's a superficial sort of veneer. Charles smiles at Erik the same way he smiles at the movies--focused, fond, and hungry for more.

There's a larger crowd than usual, this Monday. A half a dozen people are milling about in the lobby, and when Erik makes his way up to the theatre, there are at least twenty more already seated. Charles is in his usual spot, sending well-meaning but sharp smiles at anyone who approaches him. Erik wouldn't be surprised if there's some telepathic influence as well. Charles sits in the back in the corner for his own reasons, but it's proven useful, as he and Erik sometimes can't help but begin heated discussions about whatever film they're watching. Every time, Erik tries to make it a personal goal not to speak through the movie, but if they start, it's likely to escalate quickly. It's less of a problem when they're the only ones in the theatre. Today it looks like they'll have quite a bit of company.

" _Lolita_ ," Charles says by way of explanation once Erik sits down. "It always draws a crowd. As if they expect to see a movie about a man repeatedly raping a twelve-year-old girl. There's nuance to the novel, you know. It's not even an erotic novel, not truly. Not by the standard definition."

"Perverts, all of them," Erik agrees, with only a shade of mockery. Charles flicks a popcorn kernel at him, which Erik takes as invitation to help himself.

"I wasn't sure you'd be here," Charles lies. Or maybe it's not a lie. Maybe Charles hasn't read his intentions, his attraction, the inability to drift away that stymies Erik at every turn. He's turned down two job offers and countless propositions in bars because he closes his eyes and thinks about the way he feels when he's with Charles and then can't think about anything else. 

"Well, _Lolita_ ," Erik says, as if it's a given. "I'm always up for a little titillation at noon on a Monday." 

Charles huffs out his nose, but he's smiling. Erik memorizes the curls of his lips, as he does every time he makes Charles smile. In truth, Erik never even knows what film will be playing when he arrives. He comes for the company. He cares little for the cinema himself. If he wants art, he prefers theatre--never the same show twice, transient and ethereal. He wonders if the static nature of film is soothing for a telepath. He wonders if it's nice to watch people interact, even fictitiously, and not know what they're thinking.

He's never asked. He probably should. Instead, he takes another handful of popcorn as the lights go down and the last few moviegoers scamper to their seats.

Erik saw _Lolita_ his senior year of high school. His shitty public school had cut the AP program, so the advanced students were merely given an independent study and a list of books. He thinks Charles is right about it not being an erotic novel--at seventeen, he'd had high hopes. In the end, he found the novel depressing and demoralizing. The movie wasn't much better, even though he'd needed an adult's signature to rent it from the library. He gets more out of it this time, from the perspective of an adult man who knows what it's like to lose love and to be so close to something he finds so attractive. His palms itch to take Charles' hand in his own, but this isn't a date and he's not in high school any longer. Besides, he's not blind to the other themes of the movie--he can't let his obsession destroy him, not anymore than it already has. He settles for watching Charles' expression out of the corner of his eye and hoping Charles isn't listening in on his thoughts.

The crowd afterwards is half full of disappointed college students on their spring break and half full of pseudo-intellectuals who leave the theatre rambling about comparisons between the novel and the film.

 _There is no comparison,_ Charles informs him. _There's never any comparison between a novel and a book. They're like apples and oranges._

Erik has heard this before, though last time it was in reference to the _Harry Potter_ films.

 _A good adaptation can stand on its own,_ Erik parrots at him, only half mocking, a direct quote from their extensive _Harry Potter_ discussion.

 _Exactly!_ Charles replies, beaming, and Erik rolls his eyes, though his shoulder hits Charles' as they return to the busy street. Charles leads them towards a tiny bakery that serves sandwiches on fresh bread, the first place they ever had a post-film lunch. The woman behind the pastry case smiles and nods at Charles when they enter, and Charles waves back.

Everyone knows Charles. Erik thought he had a certain amount of visibility in the New York mutant community, but while the proprietors of mutant-owned businesses know Erik because he can get certain things done, everyone seems to know Charles because they simply _like_ him.

Erik knows how they feel.

They argue about adaptations in between ordering sandwiches and then in between eating them. Charles orders a plate of cookies and then makes Erik eat more than his share while Charles speaks passionately about Nabokov. 

"Oh, shut it already," Erik says, and hands Charles a cookie to aid in the command. Charles takes the cookie with a saucy smile and nibbles on it.

"Can I ask you a personal question?" he asks. Erik sips his coffee and rolls his eyes.

"I don't imagine I could stop you," he says.

"I know that Moira MacTaggert offered you a job in Washington at the Mutant Rights Consortium." Erik's not entirely surprised that Charles knows that. Charles and Moira have worked together in the past, and the way Charles talks about her, Erik assumes Moira is a close friend. "I know because I gave her your name."

That's slightly more surprising.

"The question, I guess, is why didn't you take it?"

He takes another bite of the cookies and chews slowly. He's devoted to the Brooklyn Area Mutant Support Center. He built everything it is with determination, dedication, and, in places, his bare hands. But while it was gruesomely, demoralizingly hard to get it up and running, it's been a growing success for the past two years and he's not really needed any longer, not the way he once was. He also trusts his colleagues--his assistant director, Angel, could easily run the place in his absence. She does most of the nuts and bolts work already. The MRC would pay him much better and would come with a certain amount of prestige.

It would also come with a relocation to DC. And while there's nothing chaining him to New York except for one genetics professor who sees him twice a month at the cinema, those chains are surprisingly heavy. Erik tries not to look at Charles' mouth as he considers an answer. 

"I have a life in New York," he says finally. "And I have an obligation to the Center. I don't know that I can play politics in DC. I know I can do this. I...like it here. I have connections. I appreciate the MRC, but it's all posturing. I know what I'm doing here. I know that it helps. I'd rather help than pull home a bigger paycheck."

Charles finishes the cookie. His eyes don't leave Erik.

"Hm," he says when he's swallowed.

"You have crumbs on your mouth," Erik says when it becomes clear Charles won't be saying anything else. 

Charles' lips curl into a grin.

"What are you going to do about that?" Charles asks, and Erik takes that as his cue to stop talking, to lean over their sandwich crusts and cookie crumbs and kiss Charles until the waitress comes with their check.

***

There are eight teenagers cluttering up the lobby when Erik ducks in from out of the rain. They're an unexpected sight, and Erik freezes and blinks for a long moment, rain blowing in off the street. The girl closest to the door calls him a particularly unflattering name in Spanish as she steps away from the chill, and Erik has no compunctions about shooting back an equally rude epithet as he closes the door.

 _Erik,_ chides the now familiar voice in his head, and there's Charles, standing at the concession stand, talking to a middle aged Latina woman.

"It seems my companion has arrived," Charles says. His smile is the same cookie-cutter grin he gives all strangers, but something in his eyes lights up as Erik draws nearer. "Erik, this is Maya. Her students are studying _To Kill a Mockingbird_ , so she thought she'd bring them to see the film."

"Lovely," Erik says. The freezing rain had rather led Erik to believe they'd be alone today. No one really wants to come to a Monday matinee when the weather gets like this. He sighs and hopes they stay quiet, at least. Charles' smile shifts into the one that's more familiar to Erik. He reaches out and wipes a stray bead of water from Erik's forehead, for all the good it will do. Erik is soaked, his umbrella was useless. Still, the gesture is casual and intimate and Erik can't stop his shiver.

"It was lovely to meet you, Maya," Charles says, half turning back to her.

"Likewise, Charles," she says. "Enjoy the film." Something of her expression reads like a commentary on their relationship, on the way Erik is so obviously putty under Charles' hands, on the way Charles was so quick to reorient himself when Erik arrived. Erik's not sure what the comment is, though, so he holds his tongue and lets Charles guide him out of the lobby and into the empty theatre, his hand low and intimate on Erik's back, heat searing through the heavy, damp fabric of Erik's coat. He wants that heat all over his body, wants Charles' hands to burn through the chill that's overtaken him from head to toe as he drips on the theatre carpets.

He doesn't come to these things looking for a fuck. He absolutely enjoys himself in the hours after the films end, in the time he spends in Charles' bed, but it really isn't about that.

Usually.

Today he wants to be possessive. He wants _Charles_ to be possessive. Today, cold and wet and acutely aware that, but for _Maya's_ notion to impress art onto eight high schoolers, he and Charles would be alone in this theatre.

They've never fucked here. It always waits until after, if it happens at all, but there's a first time for everything, isn't there?

It won't be today, though. Because they're not alone, and he knows how much Charles adores both Gregory Peck and Atticus Finch. He peels off his coat and drapes it over the seat next to him before he takes his seat next to Charles. Charles carefully places his popcorn on the floor and then takes Erik's hands between his own and rubs vigorously.

"You're freezing," Charles says. Erik wonders, briefly, how Charles has managed to stay so dry. His hands are warm, hot even, as they press the circulation back into Erik's. They linger past the point they need to, and when Maya and her eight pupils file into the fourth row of the theatre, Charles keeps Erik's left hand secured in his right.

Eighteen months and they've certainly never done this before. They're not a couple. They're not on a date.

But Erik's not about to complain or pull away.

"I love _To Kill a Mockingbird_ ," Charles says.

"You love Gregory Peck," Erik corrects. Charles squeezes his hand in admonition.

"No," he says, "I mean--yes. I do. But, I swear, the novel changed my life. Changed how I looked at life. It's so masterful and so...hopeful. That loss of innocence, of learning that bad things happen to good people for no explainable reason--it's infinitely relatable, but Scout still manages to hold on to what she believes despite it. She knows not everyone is bad. She's saved by someone generally reviled by the town and learns that first impressions aren't everything. We all need to lose our innocence to grow up--Jean Louise manages to do it with a manner of self-possession that I admire, that we can all admire, I think. Atticus ultimately fails, but he's also trying to do good, and that's reflected in those children. He's a pillar of respectability in the town, but set apart because of it. He's grounded. He's kind. He doesn't let his life become about his failures. He doesn't let himself sour. He's so admirable."

Erik shakes his head, holding back a smile.

"I can't tell if you want to be Atticus Finch or if you want to fuck him," he says. He doesn't say that Charles--with his belief in human decency and his ability to pull himself back up every time the world knocks him down for being a mutant, being queer, being outspoken--is probably already halfway to the first one.

"Sometimes I can't tell either," Charles admits, just as the lights come down.

Erik's read the book _To Kill a Mockingbird_ more recently than he's seen the film, and finds himself comparing the two even as he consciously struggles not to. It's a good film, though, and engaging in a way that some of the classics aren't. He feels oddly good once it's over, though he doesn't normally take the ending quite as optimistically as Charles does.

"It's always about othering, isn't it?" he says to Charles as they stretch after the film. "We always have to find the other. We always have to ostracize what's different."

"Not necessarily," Charles says. He waves to Maya and her students as they head towards the door, chatting happily. Maya waves back, and the girl who swore at Erik earlier pauses in her stride and then turns. Her arm extends back to where she was sitting, an impressive ten or twelve feet, and then retracts, now holding a bright pink umbrella. She resumes talking to her classmates without missing a beat.

"How do you feel about school integration?" Charles asks. He watching the students still, as the last of them leave Charles and Erik alone in the theatre. He still doesn't look away when the doors close.

"I'm of two minds," Erik says. "The Supreme Court ruled that 'separate but equal' isn't actually equal and there's practical evidence to support that. But at the same time, public schools aren't teaching mutants the things they need to know about their powers or their culture, and maybe we need to create institutions to do that." He tries to make that a strong aspect of the Center, but he's not sure how well he's done on that front--most teens, mutants or not, don't want to do any extra schooling if they don't have to, and most non-mutant parents of mutant children are hesitant to send their kids to learn more about that side of themselves.

"Don't you think it's easier, logistically, to fix our current schools, rather than to build new ones all together?" Charles asks.

They walk down the aisle of the theatre and push the doors open to the lobby. The rain seems to have abated--it's still grey outside, but the downpour has ceased and Erik can handle a drizzle after surviving the earlier monsoon.

"No," he says. "Because it's not just fixing schools, it's fixing mindsets. The entire structure of the current education system is flawed. It's not just mutants getting screwed over, it's mutants and anyone who's not white and not at least upper middle class. Mutants are only one of many problems, and by the time we get around to addressing the mutant problems in the current education system, it's going to be too late. We've already damaged generations of kids. It's too late already."

"Hm," Charles says. "I can't say I entirely agree." He pushes open the door to the sidewalk and holds it open for Erik. "You went through public school right here in the city. You turned out lovely."

"I'm a fucking mess, Charles," Erik says. He shakes out his umbrella and pops it open. "Did you bring an umbrella?"

"No," Charles says, sliding into Erik's personal space and huddling underneath Erik's umbrella. "I took a cab."

Erik sighs and wraps an arm around Charles. It's the only way to keep them close enough to fit under the piece of crap he bought from a street vendor for five bucks. 

"You're not a mess," Charles continues as they head down the street. "Or rather, you may be a mess, but you're still brilliant and driven and functional and successful. We're all a mess in our own way."

Charles is secretly kind of a shitshow. Erik knows that. Erik knows that all the money in the world couldn't buy Charles a happy childhood, that there are scars on Charles' body that Erik has seen mirrored on the bodies of children he's taken to the police or ACS. He knows that Charles' mother died last year and Charles still won't properly talk about it. He's been to the house out in Westchester and he's seen what Charles is like there.

But still.

"That may be true," he says, "but why be passive? Why sit back and wait for the world to fix itself for us? No one's looking out for mutant kids except for other mutants, Charles. Why not start something now and get rid of it later if it becomes obsolete?"

"Because creating something outside of the current education system isn't going to help the children currently inside of it," Charles says. "Because...not every mutant student is going to get a chance to be a part of some outside school or after school program or supplementary class. And if the school system sees those needs are being filled elsewhere, it's going to stop trying any harder to get it done on their time, failing those that can't be a part of a new program or can't afford a new school. Those that need it most, probably. The only way we can be _positive_ we're at least trying to reach everyone is to do it through the current school system, flawed as it may be."

Charles has a point, of course. There's no easy answer to this. There are people whose entire job it is to come up with ways to enhance mutant education. They're good people with good hearts--Erik has met many of them and lobbied with them. Erik wants to believe in them, but it's been years since he graduated high school and he can't see how it's gotten measurably better.

"It's not changing fast enough," Erik says, which he knows isn't really an answer to the issue at hand or a proper rebuttal to Charles' point.

"How would you change it?" Charles says. "Given basically unlimited funds, how would you supplement the flaws in public education for mutant children?"

Erik has thought about this before. Lately, he's been thinking that maybe it's time to leave the Center in Angel's hands and start an off-shoot with just this purpose. The problem, of course, is that Erik doesn't have the sort of unlimited funds necessary to even get something like this off the ground, let alone operating in such a way that it can do the most good.

"Pay what you can tuition," he says to Charles. "A real analysis of financial capabilities--no one should be paying more than they can afford, and if they can afford it, they should pay, regardless of the merit of the student. Classes broken down by type of abilities. Academics sorted by ability level, not age. Teachers who understand how to incorporate powers into the classroom as another form of problem solving. One-on-one sessions about how to use powers instead of how to 'control' them. Kids should be taught how to integrate their powers into their lives to make things easier, not how to suppress their powers so they appear 'normal.' As much mutant staff as I could find. Classes on mutant history and culture. Creating learning materials for those sorts of classes would be hard, but with unlimited funds, I could write them myself if I had to. The point of the whole place would be to show that there is no normal, and that mutants shouldn't have to hide who they are to fit baseline human society."

Charles stops and smiles up at him, one of those private, brilliant smiles.

"I thought that was what you'd say," he says. "I'd hoped, at least. You know, for all you try to come off as an ass, you're also intoxicatingly kind."

They're in close proximity because of the umbrella, and Erik is leaning down to kiss Charles before he even realizes it. 

It's a quick kiss. When he pulls away, Charles is still smiling.

"I think," Erik says, "this would be very romantic if we were actually dating and if my five dollar umbrella wasn't leaking on our heads."

Charles laughs.

"How do you feel about Indian?" he asks.

"Lead on," Erik says, and tries not to lend too much weight to the way Charles' arm sneaks around his waist as they walk off.

***

Sundays are usually slow at the Center. There's an early yoga class run by Angel and the rec room and gym are open all day, but there are no other scheduled activities. The younger crowd tend to use Sunday to sleep in and then go to brunch, while the older mutant population has church and Sunday news programs and planning for the rest of the week. The trains run less frequently, so they rarely have visitors from other boroughs. Erik usually uses the time to catch up on paperwork and schedule out the rest of his week.

This week, Angel sticks around after her yoga class, ostensibly to help him work through a stack of invoices. Mostly, he thinks, she'd rather be here than home alone. After the yoga class, Angel technically has the rest of the day off and it's the closest thing to a whole day off she ever takes. It works out in his favor, though--Angel is his best employee and one of the founding members of the Center, but the reason she's his assistant director is that she's far better with people than Erik could ever hope to be. He can send her out to talk to anyone who happens to wander in and stay locked in his office, so he's always happy when she decides to skip her day off.

"It was that moony-eyed acrobat kid again," Angel says when she returns to the office after attending to someone at the front desk. "Looking for you, of course."

"Please don't encourage him," Erik says. Far too many newcomers to the center develop crushes on him. He blames it on the fact that he's frequently the first person in their lives who's allowed them to truly be themselves. Angel blames it on the fact that Erik starts every morning with a two mile run to the Center and then a quick workout before he opens it for the day. 

"He's harmless," Angel says. "He'll get over it soon. Besides, everyone knows you're off-limits anyway."

"Good," Erik says gruffly. He neatly piles a stack of donation forms on his desk to be scanned and then shredded. "I have to have some illusion of authority here."

"I mostly meant because everyone knows you and Charles Xavier are a thing," Angel says. She doesn't even look up from her laptop. Erik resists the urge to short circuit it.

"Charles and I aren't--we're just--" There's not a word for it. They're not precisely friends. They're certainly not lovers. Charles is the single most brilliant, infuriating person that Erik has ever met. He enjoys talking to Charles nearly as much as he enjoys their time in bed together. But this is all there is to them--movies twice a month, lunch and sex after, and any random encounters at various mutant-related events and parties.

"Yeah, right," Angel says. "You're not whatever, you just spent all of Emma's New Year's party sharing half a case of champagne in the library with the doors closed."

"We were talking about mainstreaming psionics," he says. And then were. Most of the time. But their midnight kiss kept going, fueled by three bottles of champagne in four hours, and they started 2013 by nearly breaking one of the old wingback chairs in Emma's library.

"You go out with him like, every Monday!" Angel says. She glances up from her laptop, eyebrows raised. "You stopped seeing other people over a year ago, right around the time you started taking Mondays off and heading off to that crappy indie theatre in the Village. You go to all those parties together--" Erik opens his mouth to protest, but she continues, "--and don't argue, even if you don't go together, you end up together. There's a lot of gossip about you in the community. You spend all day talking to these people. You have to have figured that out by now."

Erik looks back down at his invoices and pretends he's studying whatever's on the top--the receipt for a donation from the Worthington kid, which just makes him think of how it was Charles who introduced him to Erik at a fundraiser, chiding Erik mentally not to be an ass despite Worthington's arrogance. 

Goddammit, Charles has infested every part of his life.

"We don't go out every Monday," Erik says. "We both like old films--" That's an outright lie. "--and sometimes we hardly see or talk to each other--" That one's a half truth. "--and it's none of your business anyway." That, at least, is honest. Unfortunately, he doesn't think Angel buys any of it. 

"It's a good thing, boss," she says. "You've thrown your life into running this place for the past four years. We're doing okay, now. We have staff, we have regular clients and guests, we have enough funding to get by. You _should_ take some time for yourself, you know? It's great that you love this place so much, but you can have a life outside of it now."

The problem is, Erik doesn't know _how_. He spent his childhood keeping his head down and keeping to himself. He spent his four years at City Tech being angry. He's spent all the time since then restless, itinerant, and trying to turn that anger into something productive. The Center took two years of planning and spent two years operating on only the meagerest of budgets. Erik didn't even take a salary those first two years--he lived at the Center, ate from its kitchen, and poured all his time, resources, and energy into keeping it afloat.

He succeeded. People started taking notice. A few mutants in positions of power in the city started dropping his name. Their clientele grew and so did their donations. And it's not so much that Erik became superfluous, but he did start to find himself at loose ends. He leased another apartment. He had free time. And then he had Charles.

He rubs his forehead hard with the heel of his hand. He does need to get out. He needs to create a life for himself outside of doing odd jobs in the mutant community and running the Center. He needs to create a life outside of Charles, because Charles is brilliant and rich and gorgeous and one day, Charles is going to find someone worth settling down with, and Erik needs to prepare himself.

He's saved from explaining all of this to Angel, however, when the phone rings. They make eye contact for a moment, her gaze questioning, but he shakes his head and points to the phone. She picks it up.

"Brooklyn Area Mutant Community Support Center, Angel speaking," she says. "Mm hm. That's us." She looks up from her computer again and points to the phone as she says, "Yes, he's our Executive Director." _Reporter,_ she mouths at him. He shakes his head. He has better things to do than talk to reporters. That's what he hired Angel for. "No," she says, "he's unavailable right now, but maybe I can help?"

"I'm going to scan and shred these," Erik says, seizing his chance to strategically retreat from further conversation about Charles Xavier and Erik's lack of a social life. "Then I'm going to run by Greta's and see if Mr. and Mrs. Fischer need any help this week."

Strategic retreat. He's not running away. He's a busy man with things to do.

Their conversation sticks with him, though. It's hard to lose it, not when he's soon showering and shaving and dressing for an afternoon movie with Charles. He always takes care. He does it in such a way that it doesn't necessarily look like he's putting effort into his appearance, but he plans his outfits in advance, makes sure he's looking his best. Charles has never mentioned it, but then, why would he? They're not dating. They're barely even friends. They just...have this one thing in common.

Erik tells himself that the whole way to the theatre.

There are a few men in their seventies chatting about the first time they saw _The Manchurian Candidate_ in theatres during its initial run. He bypasses them and heads straight through the double doors in the lobby. Two college-aged boys are sitting in the very back row and Charles is in his normal seat, his gaze a million miles away, no popcorn in sight. He raises a hand in greeting, but Erik doesn't have to be a telepath to know that Charles isn't entirely present.

"Is everything okay?" he asks when he sits down.

Charles stares at him blankly and then shakes his head clear.

"I'm so sorry," he says to Erik. "I was...elsewhere. Thinking. It's wonderful to see you, of course."

"Charles?" Erik asks, because it's just out of character enough that he's concerned. Even Charles' answering smile is weak.

"I had a conversation with my sister this morning that turned a tad...sharp," he says. 

Erik believes it. He's met Raven Xavier on several occasions and she's come into the Center once or twice for classes and events. She's feisty and combative if pressed. Charles is the most stubborn person Erik has ever met. He imagines their disagreements must shake the foundations of whatever building they're in at the time. 

"Everything okay with her?" he asks.

"She disagrees with some decisions I've made recently," Charles says. "She'll come around. She always does. And until then, I have you and Frank Sinatra to distract me." He takes Erik's hand and squeezes, but Erik doesn't let him pull back afterwards.

"You sure you don't want to talk?" he asks.

"Isn't that what after the movie is for?" Charles says. He forces his usual teasing tone, but it falls flat. Erik weighs the pros and cons of pushing harder and comes down on the side of letting it simmer over the course of the film and poking it again once they've finished. He reminds himself again that they're not friends and it's none of his business.

He lets go of Charles' hand once the film begins and tries not to spend the next two hours thinking about how badly he'd like to take it back.

"Did you know," Charles says softly during the film, "that the original novel was staunchly anti-mutant?" He leans in close to whisper the words in Erik's ear. Erik resists the urge to shiver.

"I didn't," he murmurs.

"The film was made prior to the repeal of the Hays Code in 1968, so they couldn't imply anything on screen without being censored," Charles says. "If they had made the movie five years later, it might have been an anti-mutant propaganda film."

The anti-mutant propaganda films virtually exploded in 1968. At the start of wider mutant recognition--and the subsequent fear--in the 1940s, a clause was written into the Motion Picture Production Code forbidding reference to mutants on screen. In some ways, this worked out to their favor--it prevented the demonizing of mutants on screen. Unfortunately, it also prevented any kind of mutant representation on screen and, once the code was abandoned in the late sixties in favor of the MPAA film ratings, the market was flooded with anti-mutant films whose scripts had been sitting on shelves for years.

It wasn't a great time to be a mutant. 

"Sinatra wasn't anti-mutant, though," Erik whispers. He shifts to put his arm along the back of Charles' seat so he can lean in closer. "He always encouraged that subtext. He was very liberal in the sixties."

"More conservative in the seventies and eighties," Charles says. "Although he was always a friend to the mutant community. Did you know he told Reagan to be more inclusive of mutants in the eighties?"

"Ssssh!" one of the older men in the front hisses back at them, so Erik doesn't reply. He doesn't move his arm, either, and Charles leans into the half embrace, pressing himself up against Erik's side, despite the armrest between them. Erik feels slightly like a teenager on his first date, but it's not uncomfortable and Charles seems more relaxed than he was at the start of the film. Erik doesn't want to be the one to shatter that calm.

It's unseasonably warm for April. Charles is quiet as they leave the theatre and re-enter the sunshine, but it's a slightly different sort of quiet from earlier. 

To Erik, he says, "How do you feel about a picnic?"

Erik doesn't have strong feelings one way or another about a picnic. He's like that with most food, actually. He blames it on growing up without the freedom of choice; he would eat at the same place every day if left to his own devices, so it just makes sense that he allows Charles to choose their lunches. Plus, Charles takes an obvious delight in food that pleases Erik for reasons he doesn't examine too closely.

They end up at a park not far from Charles' apartment, with a collection of fruit and sandwiches from the food truck set in the alley across the way. The man on the food truck knew Charles--of course he did, everyone does--and didn't even allow them to order properly before shoving random things into a bag and foisting it upon them, so Erik can't help but poke at his sandwich dubiously.

"It's good," Charles insists. "It always is."

Charles is lounging on a large blanket he ran upstairs to retrieve, propped up on one elbow with his head near Erik's crossed legs. Erik doesn't know that he's ever really studied Charles in the sunlight. He certainly hasn't done it like this, his body stretched out against the backdrop of green grass and blue sky. The sun is bringing out even more freckles in his face. 

He looks at his sandwich to keep from looking at Charles. It's good, as promised.

"Do you think..." Charles starts to say, but he trails off.

"About many things," Erik says dryly, and Charles sends him the telepathic equivalent of a pinch. 

"Do you think that it's possible to reinvent a place? Or a person? Do you think that bad past acts overshadow any good that can come of something?"

"I don't know," Erik says. "I think it depends on a lot of different things."

"I defended Sinatra," Charles says. "That's the opposite, really, but the same issue at heart. Sinatra endorsed Nixon and Reagan and I defended those choices by saying he was a friend to mutants and to blacks and to women. Do we do the same thing to places that have hurt us? Do we let those shadows linger?"

Erik looks down at Charles, so earnest in the bright sunlight of the afternoon, despite the shadows under his eyes.

"You keep saying 'places,'" Erik says.

"You're very sharp," Charles says. His smile is only half-hearted. "I fought with my sister this morning."

"You said," Erik says.

"It was mostly about the house we grew up in," Charles says, and Erik's not sure how to respond to that. He's been out to that house once. Charles hosted a political fundraiser there about a year ago. It was ostentatious and opulent and looming and Charles had all but begged him to spend the night. They'd left early in the morning to return to the city and the further they got from North Salem, the more Charles relaxed.

He recognizes in Charles now the tension that was so apparent that night. He reaches out to stroke Charles' hair, an awkward movement that feels more natural once Charles sighs and presses into the touch.

"Tell me about what you were like as a child," Charles says. 

Erik has to think for a moment before he can proceed, but he doesn't stop petting Charles' hair. 

"I was...frightened and angry," Erik finally says. "Too smart, too volatile. I bounced between foster homes. I didn't make friends easily. I imagine I was a handful. I wish, sometimes, I could go back and apologize to all of the foster families and social workers I lashed out against. They were only trying to help, and I realize now I was lucky to have so many people in our broken social services system who had my best interests at heart."

Charles hums and closes his eyes. Erik scratches at his scalp and thinks back to those sullen, enraged years of his youth, his suspensions, the arguments, the pain and rebellion. He doesn't regret it--those years are the reason he's been able to manage the years since. He likes the person he is now, and he never would have gotten here without that pain. 

"What were you like as a child?" he asks Charles. 

He regrets it almost immediately. He asked because of the flash in his mind of a tiny, precious Charles with floppy hair and big blue eyes and a smile missing teeth. Past that immediate impulse, however, he thinks of that house and Charles' scars and wishes he could take the words back.

"Too smart," Charles says. "Too...impulsive. I liked books. I liked exploring. I liked playing with my powers, at least until it started bothering other people around me." He opens his eyes and smiles up at Erik. "I was very cute, yes."

The image appears in Erik's mind, a school photograph by the looks of it, of a round-faced, grinning little boy with very familiar eyes. Erik smiles and tries to think of an equivalent photo to send back to Charles, but the only one clear enough in his mind is of him and his parents, his real parents, before he lost them.

He doesn't mean to send it. He must do it by accident, or maybe Charles just plucks it from his mind.

"Oh, Erik," Charles says. "They look...kind."

Erik's memories of his parents are hazy and ephemeral. He doesn't talk about them.

"They were," he says now. "They were hard workers. They loved having a son. They loved what I could do. They didn't have much, but I never noticed. I had everything I needed. They took care of me."

"They would have been proud of you," Charles says. "You've done so much--they would have been so proud of you, darling."

The endearment startles Erik. Charles has dozens of them that slip out of his mouth directed at everyone he speaks to, "love," "darling," "dear," and half a dozen more. Erik is used to them, but casually. Absently. Not with intent. Not in a moment this serious.

He swallows the lump in his throat.

"I hope so," he says, and traces Charles' cheekbone. "And you--" He clears his throat. "You've become so much--you're--you're better than those people. The people in your past. You're amazing."

Charles doesn't say anything, but it's like Erik is suddenly in Charles' head--his emotions whip around Erik, gratitude and affection and fear and fragility, like a roaring in his ears. Erik's chest gets tight and heavy. Part of him wants to pull away from Charles, to put a stop to this, to keep it loose and casual and distant, but he can't bring himself to move.

"Come upstairs," Charles says. "Come upstairs with me."

He should make a flip comment about how that's the point of these little outings.

"Okay," he says. "Yeah."

There's something different about the encounter. It might be the way Charles' skin is still warm from the sun or this strange, new intimacy that's making itself known. Charles' eyes seem bluer, his smile sweeter, and there's a blanket wrapped around Erik's mind, simultaneously providing comfort and making everything seem somehow sharper.

They lounge in Charles' bed without talking for a long time. It's unlike them--they're always talking, always arguing, never lacking something to say to fill the time. Erik is content to remain reclined in Charles' bed today, though. He runs his hand lazily up and down Charles' back while Charles breathes deeply against his chest, tracing his hipbone.

"I might have done something stupid and impulsive, but I think it's for the greater good," Charles mumbles.

"I've done a lot of stupid and impulsive things for the greater good," Erik says.

"I want to make something beautiful out of the things that hurt me," Charles says. "I want them to be used to do good. I want to do good."

"You do good already," Erik says. "And whatever it is you've done now, I'm sure it's not stupid. I'm sure it will work out. You have the sort of mind people write about in history books. You'll be fine." Speculation, maybe, but he believes it. Maybe it's the fragility of this afternoon, the delicate web of emotion surrounding them, but Erik is absolutely sure it's true. "And if it doesn't," he adds. "If it's not? Don't be afraid to ask for help. Between the two of us, I'm sure we can sort it out."

Charles hums in reply and kisses Erik's chest. He doesn't speak again until the sun has set and Erik is dressed again, getting ready to head back to Brooklyn.

"Will I see you at the next movie?" Charles asks. " _Lawrence of Arabia_. One of my favorites." 

_They're all your favorites,_ Erik thinks, but doesn't project. He knows he should respond, but he's not sure how. They've never done it like this. They've pretended, for over a year, that the meetings have been casual and serendipitous. Is this a date? Is Charles asking him on a date? Or is he merely just interested to see if Erik will be attending? Fuck.

"I enjoy Peter O'Toole," he says, which isn't really an answer.

"That's not really an answer," Charles says.

He could say he's been planning on it. Or that he'll have to see if he's busy. Or that it will depend on the weather. But Charles is putting himself out there by taking this step, and the least Erik can do is offer a little bravery of his own.

"Yes," he says. "I'll be there."

Charles smiles, but it's shy and soft around the edges and makes him look younger than he is. It's not the way he normally smiles at Erik, not the way he smiles at films, but something new and maybe fragile. "Good," he says. Then he leans forward and gives Erik the sort of kiss he hasn't gotten since the evening after his first ever romantic date. The hesitancy is unnerving. "I'll see you there," he says.

"Yes," Erik says, and leaves Charles' apartment dazed and off-kilter. He stays like that all the way back to Brooklyn.

***

Erik has never before gone to the theatre with this sort of intent. Charles is going to be there and Charles knows Erik is going to be there. Charles asked after Erik. This isn't a random happenstance or a coincidence because they both like old movies. This can't be written off. Charles asked Erik and Erik told him he would be there and that knowledge is heavy and looming over Erik's every action for two weeks. He starts planning his outfit on Friday night and scraps and rearranges it no less than six times between Friday night and Sunday morning, when he reminds himself that he _doesn't care_ and _Charles_ probably doesn't care and if he insists on continuing this insanity, he's going to slam his own head against a wall.

It works long enough for him to go down to the street and buy breakfast and a newspaper from the mutant bakery on the corner. He lingers outside the florist and wonders if he should buy flowers. It's definitely a date. He's kidding himself to think otherwise. Would Charles appreciate flowers? Is Erik the sort of man who brings flowers to annoying professors with whom he's been having a protracted physical affair? 

He sips his coffee, tables the flower debate, and takes his newspaper upstairs. The Sunday Lifestyle section usually has a reliably interesting mutant column, which will be helpful on the off-chance he and Charles are, for the first time in their acquaintance, at a loss for conversational topics. He flips it over and scans the headlines before the photo on the far left, just above the fold catches his eye.

It's definitely the source of his flower-and-wardrobe dilemma staring out at him from a charming headshot. Erik starts reading without even sitting down.

And then keeps reading and starts frowning.

And then flowers and wardrobe are the least of his problems.

*

"Erik!" Charles says on Monday morning. "I'm so sorry I'm late!"

And he is, not that they set a particular time, but the movie is supposed to start momentarily, when usually Charles is already waiting even before Erik's customary arrival time of seven minutes early. Erik would suspect Charles of avoiding him, except that Charles does look flustered and windswept, and a little flushed from exertion, as if he ran the whole way here. 

"There was an emergency at the university that I had to deal with," he continues, jogging up the aisle towards their seats. His smile is the one Erik is used to, so different from the expression in the photo on Erik's lap. It dims, however, when he catches sight of the newspaper.

"Oh," he says. "I was wondering if you'd see that."

Which is a lie--Charles had to know he'd see it. Charles knows how seriously he takes local mutant politics. He has to know that even if Erik had snubbed the _Times_ for whatever reason, the profile would have been the talk of the local community and _someone_ would have wanted to gossip with Erik about it. More like everyone, really--Erik's name-dropped in the piece and every person he'd seen Sunday afternoon had asked about it. He still has an inbox full of emails to wade through, messages he's avoiding answering until he gets some answers himself.

"I saw it," Erik says dryly.

"Of course," Charles says. They're the only ones in the theatre today and the silence stretches out. "I'd hoped we could talk. The university's been getting a flood of calls since yesterday afternoon and I had to at least deal with some of them before coming over here, unfortunately, so I was rather later than--"

Erik picks up the paper, but it's mostly for show. He has the quote memorized.

" _'It's not as important as the work being done in the community,' Xavier insists_ ," he reads. " _'My friend Erik does hands-on work on the streets, connecting members of the community to resources and services and what he does is breathtaking and_ real _. That's where the battles are going to be won--out there, with the people. What we're doing is playing pretend with people's rights for the media. Real change needs to start out there, and that's what I intend to do, starting with our most vulnerable population--children.'_ " It's a pull quote, even, the text of the last two sentences large and dark and centered between two columns. The reporter goes on to identify Erik as the founder of the Brooklyn Area Mutant Community Support Center and call him "a pillar of the New York mutant community" before returning to extolling Charles' virtues and his shocking decision to leave his position at Columbia University and his seat as chairman of the Mutant Health Coalition to start a school for mutant youth on the site of his Westchester estate.

"We're friends, aren't we?" Charles asks, dodging the real question, because Charles talks about these things on his terms and his terms only. Erik stands to let Charles pass as the lights begin to dim.

"I don't know that we're friends," Erik says. Charles pauses and turns to face Erik, his back to the screen. They're standing toe to toe and having Charles suddenly in his personal space is disorienting.

"Then what are we?" Charles asks. He puts his hand on Erik's chest and Erik struggles to come up with an answer that adequately encompasses their relationship.

Behind Charles, the movie begins.

"I don't know," Erik admits. He wants to put his hand over Charles', but he doesn't. Charles stares up at him for another moment and then moves past, taking his seat. Erik's not sure if what he's feeling is relief or disappointment.

Erik does like Peter O'Toole and he normally counts _Lawrence of Arabia_ as a favorite film of his, but it's hard to concentrate with so many questions buzzing around his mind. It's somehow even harder once Charles murmurs, "Ssssh," halfway through the first act and takes his hand.

The first part ends and the projectionist calls down, "Do you guys want an intermission or should I just play through?"

"A short one would be nice," Charles calls back before Erik can snap that he should just play the damn thing so they can finish and leave and Erik can rip Charles to shreds for for doing a 180 on his education position, for making a big splashy declaration in the _New York Times_ about the private school he's opening, for taking half the framework Erik laid out for him a month ago, and for never even mentioning it to Erik, not even once, just springing it on him out of the blue and ruining all of Erik's plans for the foreseeable future. Charles isn't going to keep coming to movies in the Village if he's living outside of the city.

"Got it," the projectionist says. "Give me a shout when you're ready."

"Will do," Charles shouts back. "Thanks, chap." He lets go of Erik's hand and adds, "I need to visit the restroom."

He steps around Erik, but Erik's on his feet just as quickly, following Charles down the aisle and outside.

"Are we going to talk about this?" he asks. 

"I imagine we'll have to," Charles says over his shoulder. The rest rooms are a floor below the theatre and lobby, and Erik follows Charles down the stairs. Charles isn't allowed to walk away from this conversation. "Right now, I think I'm preoccupied, but later--"

Erik grabs his shoulder and spins him around the moment they're through the door. He thinks, at first, he's going to shout, but instead he growls, "We're not _friends_ ," because they're not, whatever this is goes beyond friends and has since before, even, Charles first kissed him.

"I don't suppose we are," Charles says breathlessly, and Erik pushes him back against the wall and kisses him with all the anger and frustration and hurt that he can't entirely articulate. Charles gasps into his mouth, his eyes wide, but he doesn't push Erik away. He kisses back just as fiercely, which just makes Erik angrier, or maybe more confused. He shoves his knee between Charles' legs and curls a hand around one of Charles' thighs, pulling him closer, sliding him up Erik's leg. Erik can feel him starting to get hard. Erik's already there, his hands shaking from the adrenaline of his arousal or his fury or whatever is pushing him through this, fueling his need to have Charles, right here.

Charles puts his hand over Erik's, pressing it closer against his leg, urging him onward, and then just as abruptly pulls his mouth away with a gasp.

"No, wait," he says. "We can't--we can't do this now."

Erik bites as the base of Charles' neck where it meets his shoulder and slides his other hand down the back of Charles' pants. The angle is awkward, but he's past caring about the annoyance and the pain. He cups Charles' ass and hikes him up further until Charles is riding his thigh and panting desperately for breath.

"Why not?" Erik manages to say. "You--you just--" He can't explain it, can't put it into words in any of the languages he knows, so he just kisses Charles again until Charles squeezes his hand and then pushes Erik away.

He's red-faced and unfocused and disheveled and beautiful and Erik hates him for being so fucking arrogant and so fucking confusing.

"We told the projectionist we'd be right back," he tells Erik breathlessly. "This isn't the time or place. And it's not really--it's not really solving anything, is it?"

Charles wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, but it's still red and swollen and shiny when he pulls away. Erik swallows. Charles is right, of course, and Erik hates him for that, too.

He nods at Charles, just once, and then fists his hands and leaves the restroom without looking back. He's still mostly hard and walking is awkward. He's shaking, too, still angry and hurt and aroused and he considers, as he hits the lobby, just walking out. Just leaving. Going back to his apartment, jerking off, and calling Moira MacTaggert to accept the job in Washington DC. He doesn't need this shit from Charles, who had to know that article was hitting but didn't mention it, who calls Erik his friend but doesn't even tell him he's leaving his job or the city, who argues for integration until he's blue in the face, and then goes and starts an exclusive mutant school. 

He still doesn't know why he's _upset_ , except for the sinister dread creeping through him that there's no escaping the truth he's been running from for weeks. Even now he hesitates outside the doors of the theatre. He can go out now. He can run from this. He doesn't have to face the truth.

Except that he's not a coward. He doesn't lie to himself. He never has.

He's maybe--no, he's probably in love with Charles.

He's definitely in love with Charles. He's been in love with Charles maybe since the day they met.

He kicks the doors to the theatre open viciously and stalks back to his seat. The fear has mostly killed his erection by the time Charles returns. Charles does not reclaim his hand as the movie resumes.

Part two of the movie passes in a daze. Erik spends more of the movie feeling for the time on his wristwatch than he does watching the characters on the screen. He digs his nails into the old wooden armrests and, when that's not satisfying enough, presses his fingers into the metal base instead. 

The moment the film ends, before, even, the end credits begin, Erik is on his feet and headed outside. 

"Erik!" Charles shouts after him, but he doesn't slow, even as he hears Charles scrambling to follow. He leaves the theatre and the lobby and only pauses on the street, squinting into the afternoon sun. He flexes his fingers and stares up at the sky until the door opens and Charles joins him on the sidewalk, breathless.

"I thought you wanted to talk," Charles says.

"I do." Erik doesn't look at him. "Let's talk."

Instead of one of the numerous tiny restaurants that Charles prefers, they end up on either side of a table at Starbucks. Charles orders something frozen and blended with whipped cream and they sit in silence, Erik sipping his black coffee, as they wait for the barista to call Charles' name. 

"You didn't say anything," Erik says once Charles is seated again. He tries to keep his voice level and faintly accusatory but not _hurt_. There's no use hiding his emotions from a telepath, most likely, but Erik still has his pride. "You ask me about my plan for mutant schooling and then you crib half of it? You could name drop me in an article, but you can't pick up the damn phone?"

Charles pulls the straw out of his drink and licks the whipped cream off the end. Erik wishes that wasn't so blatantly distracting.

"That's not...what we do, is it?" Charles asks. "You weren't wrong. We're not friends. I don't know what we are. I've never called you. I don't know that I even have your number."

That's probably a lie, and even if it isn't, he certainly knew where to get it. He could have called Moira or pulled it out of Erik's mind, even from Manhattan. Charles' range is huge and his power is intense. The first time he tried to explain to Erik, to roughly sketch out why it was he was an amazingly well-known telepath before he'd even hit undergrad, the conversation was cut short when Erik shoved him roughly against a wall and dropped to his knees because the type of power he was describing was heady and beyond anything Erik had ever imagined possible.

That's moot, now. Or maybe that's the whole point of the thing. They have fantastic sex after happenstance meetings. It's never gone beyond that. They've never even fooled themselves with, _We'll have to get coffee sometime_ or the other vague pleasantries that people exchange to try and add meaning to their sexual encounters.

Except that's wrong, too, because the meaning is already there. It's been there from the start. They've had as many lunches and dinners as they have trysts because it always starts outside of the bedroom, each of those seemingly random but actually calculated meetings has started with hours of arguing and conversation. Erik cares about Charles and, more than that, he respects Charles. He holds onto things for weeks at a time to bring them up at lunch and get Charles' opinion and insight. If he did have the balls to call Charles or to show up, unannounced, at his apartment, their contact would increase dramatically and Erik would constantly ask for Charles' thoughts on lease disputes and gentrification in mutant neighborhoods and anti-bullying tactics. 

Erik is the person people in the community come to with their problems. Charles is the person Erik brings those problems to.

"I wondered," Erik says to him, ducking the uncomfortable truths. "I wondered why you asked when you were always so focused on integration. You've always had you own ideas on curriculum and how to change education from the inside."

"I wasn't stealing from you, just confirming a structure that I already had mapped out," Charles says. "This is--this isn't a whim. I've been working on this for months. A way to reach out to the community, to see if giving mutant children a new way is really the solution to the problem."

"But that's not what you're doing!" Erik snaps. "You're putting kids in a bubble. The world is still going to be cruel, they just won't actively see it." He feels stupid even saying it. He's doing a complete 180 on his own position, but he's angry and he needs to fight however he can.

"Don't talk like you have any idea what I'm doing or planning," Charles says. "This is going to be remarkable. It's going to be something new. You're the one always saying that if we want change to happen, we can't sit around thinking about it, we need to go out and create it ourselves. That's what I'm doing."

It's funny how Erik can advocate so strongly for a change in the world around him while being so crippled by it on a personal level.

Some of that must come through, because Charles says, "Nothing has to change. Not with us." He sighs and rubs his forehead, closing his eyes. His frustration is palpable in the set of his shoulders and the lines on his face and Erik is sharply glad for it. "It doesn't affect you, not any more than any of my other work ever has. I don't _want_ anything to change."

Erik wants to say, _Then you shouldn't have changed anything_ , but he can't be selfish about this. This is exactly the sort of thing he's been advocating for, exactly the sort of thing he's _wanted_ to do since he was in school himself. The Center is the closest he can come with so little training and so few resources. He can't be selfish about Charles throwing himself into making the world a better place for young mutants. Selfishness is a weakness. 

Instead, he says, "Everything is changing, Charles, and you're a fool if you think otherwise. This is a massive undertaking. Your whole life is about to be upended."

"I understand that," Charles says. "I'm prepared to make the sacrifices. I know what I'm getting into." He opens his eyes, though he's still massaging his temples.

"I wouldn't insult you by assuming otherwise," Erik says. "It's important work. It's essential." Charles has always been too soft-hearted for his own good. He thinks that, sharply, and Charles winces, then glares.

"Then why are you so angry, Erik?" he asks. The glare is sharp and penetrating. Erik can't look away.

"I'm not," he lies, and when he says it, Charles sighs and looks down at the table, squeezing the bridge of his nose. Erik feels like he's failed some sort of test.

"So where are we?" Charles asks.

"You tell me," Erik says, rubbing at a stain on the tabletop with his thumb. "I'm not the mind-reader and I'm not going anywhere."

"You could be," Charles says. Then, before Erik can ask what he means, "I'm still here now. We're still here. Where are we going?"

Erik takes the question literally. It's the only thing he's prepared to do.

"Your place?" he asks. Charles' expression doesn't change, but he seems somehow wearier.

"Sure," he says. "Of course. Let's."

They do. 

They don't talk. Not on the walk back, not once they get to Charles' apartment, not until Charles is riding him and saying, "Please, Erik, _please_."

And then, after, as Erik drifts off with his head on Charles' pillow, "Please, Erik. Just ask. Please just ask."

***

Erik spends two weeks debating whether or not he should go to the next movie.

No, that's not entirely true. Erik spends the first two days debating whether or not he should call Charles. He does have Charles' number, after all, and he did imply that Charles was a coward for not calling. Erik's silent disappearance after Charles nodded off is at least that cowardly. But they're not friends, they don't call, and even if they did speak on the phone or meet up for coffee, what would Erik say? _I love you_? What would that change? Charles isn't about to give up his school because of Erik's misplaced affection, and the end result is still Charles in Westchester and Erik in Brooklyn. He doesn't kid himself that things would stay the same. Even if Charles wasn't busy building a school from the ground up, he's had friends move to the suburbs before. Weekly lunches quickly turn into once a month and then once every few months and then Erik gets a quick phone call between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur every year with a promise to meet for a coffee date that never actually happens.

He normally doesn't care. He wouldn't say he has many close friends in the first place, and he's not exactly mourned any of those lost pseudo-friendships. But this is different. Charles is....

Well. He's still not entirely comfortable with what Charles is.

He spends two days thinking he should call, and once he's past the window where it seems socially acceptable to call and say, "I'm sorry I snuck out of your apartment while you were sleeping to avoid potentially having a conversation about the future of our relationship and my unexpected feelings," he sets his sights on the next movie. There's no reason to break their routine. He can just show up at the next movie.

Or he could just _not_ show up at the next movie and make a clean break of it. He could never see Charles socially again, just bump into him at political functions and make small talk and pretend that none of this ever happened. It would be better, probably. He can focus on his work, maybe take the job in Washington, and it will free up his Monday afternoons.

Except the thought of never seeing Charles again physically hurts.

But possibly less than slowly drifting apart will hurt.

He spends a week and a half furiously clipping articles about Charles and his new potential school, scouring the internet whenever he's not working. He goes to meetings and mans the Center and runs errands for people in the community who need assistance. He forces a smile and a laugh when people bring up his presence in the _Times_ article about Charles and he turns down three interview requests before he stops answering the phones at the Center and lets Angel handle everything.

Sunday morning, he's sure he's not going to the movie. 

Sunday night, he's sure he is.

Monday morning, he churlishly turns off his alarm and pulls a pillow back over his head until ten o'clock, when he can't fool himself any longer. He takes the quickest shower he's ever managed, throws on the clothes he had been wearing the night before, and just misses the subway. He stares at his watch, even though he can feel exactly how far away the train is and knows exactly how late he's going to be. He considers taking a cab, considers this is the universe's way of telling him to skip the movie, and ultimately chooses to spend a tense train ride urging the subway to go just a little bit faster, which is entirely illegal and could very well get him arrested if someone were to find out.

No one does. He sprints from the subway to the theatre, shoves twenty bucks at the cashier, and runs inside without waiting for change.

The movie has already started. There are a gaggle of college-age girls in the very center of the theatre and Charles, off to the side, leaning against the wall, and looking like someone's killed his dog. He doesn't think the beginning of _Dr. Strangelove_ is supposed to be sad.

For the first time in the tenure of their acquaintance, Erik surprises Charles. It's not until Erik is halfway up the aisle that Charles looks up, and when he does, the shock is simultaneously gratifying and awful. Charles thought he wasn't going to come. Probably because Erik thought he wasn't going to come.

"Hi," Erik says.

"You're here," Charles says. He runs a distracted hand through his hair. "I thought--I know I'm not supposed to, but I peeked yesterday morning and you seemed quite sure that--"

"I'm here," Erik says. He holds his hands out, placatingly. He's not sure what to say. He almost wasn't but, at the same time, he's not sure why he resisted in the first place. He always ends up here, after all.

"Excuse me, could you be quiet?" one of the girls shouts over, and Erik takes his usual seat. Charles smiles at him ruefully and then looks back at the screen. They could be having this conversation still, if Charles wanted to, but he stays quiet, even when Erik projects a wordless cloud of apology in his direction. He does stop leaning against the wall at that, though, straightening up and moving more squarely into Erik's space.

Erik's not a fan of _Dr. Strangelove_ and he's really not a fan of the way the girls in the center of the theatre spend the entire film quoting lines along with the characters, but he can't say he regrets coming. He even, once Charles settles in and actually starts laughing halfway through the movie, allows himself to take Charles' hand in his own.

He doesn't know what he's doing, not really. It's a terrible idea. But he's here--he got out of bed, he brought himself to the movie theatre, he didn't run away from what he feels. There's a chance he's setting himself up for disappointment--a good chance, really. Charles has good intentions, but Erik knows how easily he gets swept up in things. He may be planning on meeting Erik every other Monday for the foreseeable future, right up until he's so bogged down in curriculum and grading papers that he inevitably gives up and Erik inevitably has to pick up and move on. 

Except--why does Erik have to be passive in this? Why does he have to sit back and watch it fail? He can't let his own fear keep him from trying to save it. He's not a scared little boy, he's a grown man with enough courage to take what he wants. If he wants this--and he does, he can't escape that now--he can work for it, just like he's worked for every other good thing in his life.

He spends the rest of the movie thinking about it. They can make a schedule. Make it even, equal--date nights in New York seeing films and having dinner and spending the night at Erik's apartment and date nights in Westchester doing whatever the hell there is to do in North Salem. It will give him an excuse to ride his bike again, which will give him a few hours each week that he can zone out and stop thinking about the Center and politics and Charles.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs to Charles as the movie winds down, descending into the madcap antics that fill the last half hour. "I reacted badly."

"You were an ass," Charles tells him. "I should have mentioned something, maybe, but you were an ass and despite the impressive number of sexual encounters we've had in the past year and a half, it never felt tawdry until you slipped out while I was sleeping and then didn't call."

Erik squeezes Charles' hand.

"I'm sorry," he says. Then, because it's not like Charles doesn't know anyway, "I was...scared."

"I know," Charles says, "But still. It was rude and it hurt my feelings." He rests his head on Erik's shoulder anyway, and it stays there until the end of the movie. It stays after the movie, even, once the credits have started rolling and the lights have come up. The position is awkward--Erik should have dropped Charles' hand and put his arm around Charles' shoulders half an hour ago--but he doesn't want to move, regardless. 

The girls get up and leave, still laughing, as the credits end. Charles sighs but doesn't move, and Erik presses his nose into Charles' hair. He knows there's a next part of this, a part where he apologizes fully and explains himself, but as long as Charles isn't in a rush to get to that part, neither is he. The boy in the projection booth comes down once the film is over, dragging a rolling garbage can and a broom along with him. He looks at them for a moment, but doesn't say anything until he's cleaned the rest of the theatre.

Charles doesn't say anything either, and Erik finds comfort in the repetitive sound of the broom dragging against the floor.

"Uh, you guys have to go," the kid finally says. "We have another movie starting in like, an hour, and I have to go get lunch."

Charles pulls away and pushes himself to his feet, and Erik follows close behind. He's almost afraid to expose these new revelations to the world outside the theatre, but Charles doesn't give him a choice--he takes Erik's hand and leads him out into the lobby and then onto the street. He stops on the sidewalk and glances in either direction, frowning in consideration, and then abruptly turns to the corner and pulls Erik after him.

They end up at a cafe that Erik doesn't think he's ever seen before. He's surprised he's never seen it before, given the stylized "M" sticker in the window that means it's mutant friendly and the rainbow flag beneath it. The inside is quiet and dimly lit in a way that manages to be intimate rather than annoying. There are mismatched tables and chairs squeezed inside however they can fit, but Charles bypasses them for the low, round table in the corner that's surrounded by a circular booth. It's small enough that their knees brush under the table when they sit across from each other.

"So," Charles says. He folds his hands on the table. "You were scared."

Erik swallows. They haven't even ordered yet. He supposes they've put this off long enough, though.

"I was," Erik allows. He looks at Charles' hands so he doesn't have to look at his face. The skin around his cuticles is worried and torn. His nails are even shorter than usually and uneven. He's been upset. Erik should know; Erik is the one who made him that way. "I like to act like I'm above petty concerns like the fear of change, but I'm not. While you live in the city, I can pretend this is less than I want it to be. I felt like you were forcing me to make a move." It's not all that he wants to say, but it's a start. He forces himself to look up at Charles.

"I didn't make this decision _at_ you," Charles says. "Frankly, as much as I care about you, it's rather a lot of work just to get you to commit." He offers Erik a half-smile, which Erik returns. "Let's be frank, shall we?" Charles continues. "If we're going to have this conversation, it should be honest."

"Fine," Erik says. He's overcome by the urge to tap his fingers or bounce his knee--anything to dissipate some of the nervous energy building up inside of him.

"Against the better advice of everyone in my life, I may have developed a crush on you before we even met," Charles says. "You interview very poorly, you know. However, you do photograph well." He smiles again, but it's accompanied by a blush that stains his cheeks and neck as he raises a hand to brush his hair off of his forehead. "And then we met and you're--well, just as surly as I imagined, really, but smart. And kind. And funny. So it's not, I don't think, surprising that I've--well. Fallen quite a bit in love with you, if we're being frank. And I suppose we are, given that I specifically requested it." He looks away and runs a hand through his hair, then licks his lips. Erik doesn't think he's purposely fidgeting in a way that highlights all the places Erik wants to touch him, but it's frustrating all the same.

A good sort of frustrating. An anticipatory sort of frustrating.

His throat is dry and he's not sure what to say.

"Charles," he manages, and when Charles turns back to look at him, he wraps his ankle around the back of Charles' calf under the table. Charles' mouth curls into a nervous smile, and Erik leans across the table and kisses him.

He tries to kiss away his own reservations, to make it clear that he's come to the same conclusions as Charles, that he wants to make this work, that Charles isn't the only person who's fallen. He curls his hand around Charles' jaw and Charles parts his lips, opens his mouth under Erik's, leans farther forward and closes his ankles around Erik's to keep him from moving.

Charles is the one who ends the kiss, pulling back, but not releasing Erik's leg. He's hoping for a change of venue, but Charles says, "You have to say it too. You can't just--I need to hear it."

It's only fair. Charles said it first. Still, the nervous tension returns as Erik takes Charles' hand in his own. His palm has already started to sweat.

"I want this to--I'm willing to work at this," Erik says. He takes a deep breath. "I don't want to lose you." Charles raises his eyebrows. "I love you too," Erik concludes, and Charles smiles.

"Good," he says. "That's good to know."

Before Erik can lean in for another kiss, a waiter materializes, clearing his throat and impatiently asking for their order. Erik hasn't even opened the menu yet, which Charles has either assumed or snatched from his mind, because Charles orders for both of them hastily and returns his attention to Erik once the waiter has disappeared again.

"I have a plan," Erik says. "I don't know that it's a good one. But I thought--maybe part time? Maybe every other weekend, split between here and North Salem?"

Charles' face goes unbearably tender. Erik has to look away, until Charles reaches across the table and touches his cheek, turning his face and looking into his eyes for a moment before kissing him.

"I have an idea too," Charles says. "We'll talk about it after lunch. For now, what are your thoughts on satirizing the red scare, especially juxtaposed with _The Manchurian Candidate_ from last month?"

 _I spent the whole film thinking about you,_ Erik thinks. He doesn't project it, but he doesn't shield it either. Charles goes distinctively pink.

"Well," Erik says out loud, "let's bring attitudes about mutants back into the equation..."

They talk until their food comes. It's light in a way it hasn't been in weeks, bickering and laughing over sandwiches while they play footsie under the table. There's a certain weight to the interaction; Erik thinks they're probably a couple now, thinks that makes the meal some sort of milestone, except that it's not very different than any other meal they've eaten together. Even the way Charles casually steals from his plate and touches his fingers, his arm--it's what they've always been doing, really. Intense, flirtatious, frustrated conversations about films and politics, steeped in affection, that always inevitably end in the bedroom.

It's where this one is leading. Erik can feel the anticipation pooling in his stomach as he and Charles inch closer together in the booth until they're sitting side by side rather than across from each other. Charles is making a fairly eloquent point about _The Daily Show_ and its liberal, pro-mutant agenda, when Erik leans down and kisses his throat because he can see no reason to stop himself.

"Erik!" Charles laughs, breathless. 

"If I followed our earlier conversation correctly, you're my boyfriend now," Erik murmurs. "I can do this if I'd like."

"I don't think 'now' factors into it, really," Charles says. He threads his fingers through Erik's hair and tugs lightly, until Erik pulls back and looks up at him. He waits for Charles to speak, but for a long time, Charles just looks at him, stroking Erik's temple with his thumb.

"We could alternate weekends," Charles says quietly. "Or--if you wanted, you could come with me. You could help me build the school." 

Erik doesn't move.

"Not just 'if you wanted,'" Charles continues quickly. "I want you to. You have so much experience, you've already done this, you're so good at getting people on board and on not backing down, you're connected to the community--and you'd be a wonderful teacher." He pauses. "And I want you there. I want you there with me. I want to do this with you. I wanted you to ask me, to ask me to stay or to ask to come with me, but that was selfish. You said it yourself. If I needed help, I just need to ask. So I'm asking."

Erik still hasn't moved. He's starting to get a crick in his neck.

"I know you have a whole community built around you here," Charles says. He's starting to sound a little desperate. "And I don't mean to take you from that and you could always just--I mean, if you don't want to live up there, I'd understand, and I'd still like you to consult and I can pay! I've looked into consultants anyway and I know the going rate and I'd compensate well because I understand it's a big job. But if you wanted it to be more permanent--"

"Charles, shut up," Erik finally manages to say. He sits up, very aware that if he pulls away too abruptly, Charles might get the wrong idea. Or the right idea. 

Fuck, Erik didn't see this coming.

"I didn't mean to bring it up like this," Charles says. Erik slowly disengages, but doesn't move away. He takes Charles' hand and tries to think of something to say.

The Center has been his life for four years. Six if you count the two years he spent laying the groundwork. It's his life's work. It's given him meaning. He can't imagine leaving it. He's fairly sure, though, that if he decides to even just consult with Charles on the school, he's not going to want to leave.

"I need to think about this," he finally says. "I can't just--"

"Of course of course of course," Charles says quickly. "I didn't mean for you to--of course. Take all the time you need."

Who would he leave in charge? Angel? She's competent, of course. And does most of the daily administrivia. And is better with people than he is. But--

He rubs his forehead. He's not considering this. He's not. He's not giving up the Center for a fling that could easily end badly. He's lived in Brooklyn his entire life. He can't just move to the suburbs on the delusions of some overprivileged daydreamer--

That's not fair. Charles is brilliant and cunning and knows his way around the incredibly complex politics of the mutant community. He's not some naive newcomer. If anyone has a chance of making this work, it's Charles. And if anyone will put his heart and soul and time and energy into building this, it's Charles. He's going to need someone there to keep him from running himself ragged.

Shit shit shit.

Erik rubs his forehead.

"This is...not what I was expecting," Erik finally says.

"Sorry," Charles says. "I'm sorry. I had meant--well, I thought you might have cottoned on. And I meant to come up with--I don't know, maybe a proposal. I do have plans. Curricula. I've already started hiring contractors to renovate the house. This isn't a whim."

"I didn't think it was," Erik assures him. "But this is...I can't just decide to change my life like this. I need to think about this."

"Of course," Charles says again. 

Erik squeezes Charles' hand. He can't think of anything else to say.

"So," Charles says. He clears his throat. "Shall we? I mean--if you want to. Go back to my apartment? It's a bit of a mess; I hadn't expected you to--"

"Yes," Erik says. "Let's. After sitting through that schlock, I deserve at least that much."

" _Dr. Strangelove_ is a classic," Charles says, smiling. "It's hilarious and cutting and brilliant."

"You're crazy," Erik says. "I slept through most of it in college. The only way I stayed awake from it this time was nervous tension. It's crap."

"If you think it's schlocky crap, why do you come?" Charles asks, not unkindly. He's still smiling. Erik can't see a reason to lie, so he doesn't.

"For you, Charles," he says. "How can you not know that? Do you really think I sit through all these movies for fun? I'm here because of you. I'm always here because of you. I'm here because you're here and I want to be where you are."

Charles glows. There's no other word for the look in his eyes, the sudden brightness of his smile, and the way his features go soft and fond. Erik wants to kiss him, and he sees no reason not to act on that desire.

He thinks, distantly, as presses his mouth to Charles', that he's already made up his mind. He knows he has. He's said it himself--he wants to be where Charles is. Still, he's going to give himself two weeks to talk himself out of it, so he lets Charles pull him from the booth and drag him back to his apartment to try his very best to make his case with his body.

***

On Wednesday morning, Erik calls Angel into his office.

"I want to float something by you," he tells her.

"You're quitting your job and moving to the suburbs to help Charles Xavier run the big mutant prep school that's been all over the papers," Angel says.

Erik stares at her.

"Um, everyone called that weeks ago," she continues, off his silence. "Like, seriously. He name-dropped you in the article. His model sounds really similar to the one you've been batting around for years. You're basically married to the guy. We all know you've been waiting for the right time to tell us."

"I didn't even know I was doing it until Monday afternoon," Erik finally says. Angel's eyes widen.

"Oh, honey," she says. "That's...sad."

"I haven't left yet, which means I can still fire you," Erik tells her, but she just smirks at him.

He starts putting the things he wants to bring with him in boxes. He starts throwing out most of the contents of his apartment, which is filled with second-hand junk that was good enough for his purposes at the time. He starts having quiet conversations with certain staff members out of Angel's earshot so she doesn't see him trying to poach her staff for Charles' school.

He thinks about calling Charles almost every day, but they'd agreed Erik would take the customary two weeks between movies for his decision, and Erik doesn't think he can have a conversation without spilling about his future plans. Or inviting himself over to Charles' apartment and never leaving.

They do text. It's infrequent and irreverent, mostly things about Charles' work day as he cleans out his office at the university and Erik's commentary on politics and the minor frustrations of his days. Charles, as a rule, doesn't like texting. He's told Erik many times that it's easier for him to just have conversations telepathically with people in the city, and it's more comfortable too. When the first text appeared on Thursday afternoon, Erik assumed that Charles wanted to talk to him, but the temptation to scan Erik's mind would be too great to do it telepathically.

Erik himself has never cared one way or another about texting, but he finds himself quickly growing fond of the rhythmic buzz in his pocket that means that Charles is thinking about him. He understands that telepathy is easier and more natural to Charles, but Erik appreciates tangible reminders, like the slowly growing log of their conversation, somehow seeped in affection despite the fact that it's nothing more than static letters on a screen.

They don't talk about Charles' school or Erik's decision or even the upcoming film, right up until Sunday night.

 _I'll see you tomorrow,_ Charles sends around eleven. _I've missed you, and I can't wait to see you again._ Then, _Regardless of your decision._

 _Sleep well,_ Erik texts back a few minutes, and hopes that Charles assumes he was away from his phone rather than guess the truth of how long Erik spent staring at the message with an embarrassing smile on his face.

Charles is waiting for him on Monday, as usual. He's without popcorn and nearly vibrating in his seat when Erik enters the theatre, shaking his head.

"Hello, darling," Charles says. He jumps to his feet as Erik approaches, and there's only a half second of awkward pause before they kiss briefly in greeting. "You seem displeased about something. I hope it's not my doing this time."

"It's not," Erik assures him as they take their seats. "I passed the poster for this week's movie on my way in. I hadn't realized I had signed up to sit through _Doctor Zhivago_."

"And what, praytell, is your issue with _Doctor Zhivago_?" Charles asks, taking Erik's hand and leaning into his personal space.

"Aside from the fact that it's a hundred hours long?" Erik asks. 

"It's shorter than _Lawrence of Arabia_ ," Charles points out.

"Yes, but _Lawrence of Arabia_ is actually good," Erik says. "This is tedious. And far too sentimental."

"It's a classic," Charles insists.

"You always say that," Erik says. "Just because it's a classic doesn't make it good. _It's a Wonderful Life_ is a classic. That doesn't stop it from being unforgivably schmaltzy."

Charles looks absolutely stunned. Erik briefly wonders if disliking terribly annoying Christmas movies is a dealbreaker for Charles.

" _It's A Wonderful Life_ is a fantastic movie!" Charles says, affronted. "How can you not like it?"

"It's over the top sentimentalist crap," Erik says.

"It's heart-warming!" Charles says, his voice rising slightly. "It's compelling! It's the original Christmas miracle!"

"Correct me if I'm wrong," Erik says dryly, "but I thought a virgin giving birth was the original Christmas miracle? Also, I'm Jewish."

"A winter miracle, then," Charles says. "Strip the holiday and the story is still the same. And don't try to tell me the Jews don't have a storied history of appreciating miracles."

"It's a pity party," Erik says. "A man with a decent life has one terrible thing happen, and instead of asking for help, he abandons everyone who relies on him."

"It's about the difference one man can make," Charles says, glaring at him. "How one man can change the world. Don't tell me you can't relate to that. What are you doing with your life if not trying to change the world?"

"I'm not trying to change the world," Erik says. It's a tired line. It's one he's used repeatedly when talking about his work at the Center. It doesn't make it less true, though. "People can't change the world. I'm trying to make the world better for whomever I can."

"People can change the world," Charles says. He turns in his seat to look at Erik head on. " _We_ can change the world, Erik. I think we can really do something with this school. I think we can change the face of mutant education. I think we can change the way young mutants look at themselves. Can't you see that? Don't you want to be a part of it?"

Erik's not sure when the conversation changed from terrible movies to the question that's been hanging over them both for two weeks, but he supposes they have to talk about it sooner or later.

"I do," he says. "I want to come work with you at your school."

"You could offer them so much!" Charles continues. "You can offer everyone so much, students and faculty alike." Erik waits patiently. Charles will get there. "You certainly keep me on my toes and--what?"

"I said," Erik repeats slowly and patiently, his mouth curling into a smile, "I want to come work with you at your school."

"I--really?" Charles' eyes are wide. He looks more surprised than pleased. Did he really think Erik was going to turn him down?

"Yes," Erik says.

"Oh. I--oh," Charles says. Around them, the half-dozen cinema-goers quiet and the lights go down. "Really?" he asks again.

"I still have to settle things here," Erik says, lowering his voice as the movie starts. "I have to officially hand things over to Angel and pack up."

"Take all the time you need," Charles says. "And you don't--I know Brooklyn is important to you. If you'd rather stay here and commute--you don't have to move in with me." 

Charles colors. Erik can see it even in the dim, flickering light of the screen.

"With _us_ ," he adds quickly. "At the _school_. You would, of course, have your own office and your own bedroom, there's no expectation or obligation of--"

"I'll take the office," Erik says before Charles can embarrass himself further. "The bedroom is...not necessary. If--I mean, if you're offering--"

Charles kisses him.

It's more than a kiss, but Erik doesn't know how to describe it. He can barely hang on, really, when Charles' hands fist in his shirt and pull him closer. He slides one hand into Charles' hair and puts the other on his shoulder and sighs into the kiss. His heart is racing. This is really happening--he's leaving the Center, he's moving to the suburbs, and he's moving in with Charles. Fuck.

Charles pulls away and kisses his throat.

"It's going to be amazing," Charles whispers, pressing a line of kisses down the side of Erik's neck. "It's going to be better than what we had. It's going to be inclusive and attentive and we're going to give them the home we never had. Somewhere safe. We're going to make a safe place. You and I, together."

Erik's stomach knots with anticipation both for what's to come and from the feeling of Charles' hot, damp breath brushing against his collarbone. One of Charles' hands slides down his chest, a finger catching on one of Erik's hardened nipples, and Erik has to swallow back a sharp hiss of pleasure.

"Sorry," Charles murmurs. "Sorry, I'm sorry, I got carried away." He doesn't lift his head, though, and his hand is still resting on Erik's thigh. "We should--"

Erik thinks of all the times he's sat here, right next to Charles, wound up by the thought of what was coming, regardless of whether it was debate or sex. They've never done anything that might get them kicked out. 

Apparently, Erik is feeling reckless.

He presses Charles' hand down to keep him from withdrawing it, then lowers mis mouth to Charles' ear.

"Can you make sure they can't see us?" he asks Charles. Charles shivers beneath his hands.

"Yes," he breathes. "Erik, we can't--"

Erik tips Charles' head back and kisses him again.

This is infinitely better than the movie. Charles' eyes are wide with shock, still, but he kisses back and lets go of Erik's leg only to resume his death grip on Erik's shirt, tugging him closer still. Not for the first time since these movie outings started, Erik wishes the theatre didn't think that ancient, antique seats were a necessary part of the ambiance of the room. What he wouldn't give to be able to push up an armrest and climb onto Charles' lap right now.

Charles makes a noise high in his throat, and Erik thinks, _Fuck it._ He gets up quickly and without breaking the kiss, crouching down low and then forcing Charles' legs together so he can slide his knees on either side. It's a tight fit--the seats are barely large enough for one person--but Charles is already half-hard and the press of his erection against Erik is worth it. 

"I have had," Charles says, breathy and scattered as Erik bites the edge of his jaw, "so many fantasies about this. I have-- _oh_." He weaves his fingers into Erik's hair while Erik alternates nips and kisses, leaving marks that will probably linger above Charles' collar for all to see. He palms Charles' chest and pinches a nipple through his shirt and Charles makes a soft sound that Erik likes quite a bit.

Erik's had fantasies too. Frustrating, detailed fantasies as he lay in his own bed, his hand fisted around his cock and his mind drifting to the image of Charles straddling him in the tiny theatre seats, of Charles riding him against the backdrop of countless old movies, of reaching over casually in a packed house and wrapping his hand around Charles' cock, daring him to keep silent.

He fumbles on the buttons of Charles' shirt. He keeps making incredibly distracting noises, and once the buttons are taken care of, he raises his hand and covers Charles' mouth with it.

 _That_ elicits a response. Charles' cock jerks and Erik can feel it, can feel the way his arousal starts to bleed through into Erik's mind, can feel the way Charles is tense and nearly vibrating beneath him. He pulls on Erik's hair and breathes faster against his hand, quiet noises escaping as Erik lowers his head and kisses the hollow of his throat, bites his collarbone. He kisses down Charles' sternum and then moves to the side to cover one of Charles' nipples with his mouth. He sucks and Charles breathes in sharply behind his hand. He bites and Charles bucks forward.

The waves of pleasure battering against his mind coalesce into words, thick and sweet as honey, _Please, please, oh, Erik, I need you to touch me._

 _How?_ Erik asks. He switches to the other nipple and Charles yanks his hair again, presses Erik's face harder against his chest. _How do you want me to touch you?_

 _I don't care,_ Charles thinks, and Erik reaches down and rubs at the bulge in his slacks, feeling out the shape of Charles' cock, the heat of it, thinking about how good it would taste if Erik were to--

 _Yes,_ Charles thinks. _Yes yes yes that, Erik--_

Erik straightens up, one hand still clamped over Charles' mouth, the other pressing down on his dick. He leans down and says against Charles' ear, "Can you be quiet?"

In reply, Charles pulls Erik's hand away and then pulls him in for a rough kiss. The barriers between them crumble further and the need pouring out of Charles is intoxicating. It makes Erik's skin feel too tight. It makes Erik want to peel Charles' clothes off and touch every inch of him, to fuck him right here in the middle of the theatre, to cover Charles' body with his own and hold on to it so Charles can't leave him behind.

 _I'm not going anywhere,_ Charles says. _Not without you. You're coming with me. I won't leave you. I couldn't do that._

Erik slides off of the seat and onto the floor of the theatre. He slides his hands up Charles' thigh. Fuck, but he loves Charles' thighs, loves how they feel under his hands when he's riding Erik or fucking him or sitting like this, his legs parting easily at the gentle pressure Erik applies, his cock all but on display. Erik can pop the button and pull the fly down without moving, but he needs his hands to pull down Charles' slacks and tug the waistband of his briefs down to rest under his balls.

He loves Charles' cock even more than he loves his thighs.

He could tease, but he doesn't. That's not what this is about. He wraps his hand around the base and moves in, licking the head and then sliding his mouth over it and down the shaft. Charles' hands settle into his hair, not pulling, but resting against his scalp, his nails dragging down and back, making Erik shiver. He can feel exactly what Charles is feeling, which isn't a game they play that frequently. It's intoxicating, the phantom heat around his cock as he sucks at Charles, digs his nails into Charles' thighs. Charles pants above him, and shakes amid the cloud of desire, of elation, of relief. Erik is coming with him, Erik wants him, Erik loves him, Erik is going to build this with him and he won't be alone and Erik won't be alone and they'll be able to make this together, something meaningful, something to help others, and Erik's mouth is perfect, his hands are perfect. He's going to pull Charles apart, and Charles would be happy to break under Erik's hands because he trusts Erik to put him back together again.

Erik squeezes Charles' cock, sucks harder at the head, dizzy and shaking and tipping any moment over into orgasm. He hasn't even touched himself, Charles hasn't even touched him except for the one place where it counts. Charles is in his mind, Charles can see all of his secrets, and he's still all that Charles wants.

Charles' orgasm overtakes both of them in a rush. The cock in his mouth is all that keeps Erik from shouting. He doesn't know how Charles kept quiet, but when Erik comes back to himself, his head pillowed on Charles' thigh, there's no one staring at them and they haven't been kicked out. Erik suspects quite a bit of psychic intervention has been going on this whole time.

The film is still going. Charles is petting his hair.

"Have you liked any of the movies?" Charles asks. He drags his nails against Erik's scalp.

"I liked some of them," Erik says. "I liked you. That was more important."

Charles smiles softly and leans over to kiss the top of Erik's head.

"Do you want to go?" he asks. "There's a lot to do to prepare. No need to waste time here if you'd rather be elsewhere."

"I want to be where you are," Erik says, closing his eyes.

The ensuing effusive cloud of affection makes Erik's heart expand in his chest.

"You will be," Charles says. Erik counts their breaths in the long pause before Charles says, "Come on. Let's go home."

Erik sits up and Charles cleans up and they meander out of the theatre leisurely without turning any heads. Outside, the sun is shining and the sounds of the city surround them. Erik soaks them in. Before long, he'll be trading them for bird song and the creaking of an old house.

"How do you feel about Thai?" Charles says. "I know a lovely place a few blocks away."

Erik looks around at the busy streets and takes Charles' hand in his.

"This time, why don't I pick the restaurant?" he says.

"My love," Charles says, his expression bright, sly, affectionate, familiar, "there is nothing I would like more."

Next time, Erik thinks as he leads them towards the corner, he's going to pick the film, too.


End file.
